


Five Times Castiel Gets Hugged and One Time He Doesn't

by tiptoe39



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, Hugs, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoe39/pseuds/tiptoe39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all about the warmth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Castiel Gets Hugged and One Time He Doesn't

**_I. Anna_ **

**_  
_**It’s the first time he becomes aware of his physical body being anything more than a vessel to carry him and allow him to speak with the humans. Anna tells him what he’s feeling is called doubt, and under the light of a snow-capped streetlight, she reaches out, folds her arms around him and says, “I know you’ll do the right thing, Castiel.”

He’s quivering, and the moment sears itself into his mind, a stone-etched memory he can’t banish. What is this, and why does it matter? It shouldn’t. His vessel’s sensations are distinct from his own experience. They’re a dim echo in his mind; what matters, even in physical fights, is the damage his celestial being takes on. But Anna’s breath against his ear, the warmth of her against the cold of the night, and most importantly that strange sensation of arms stretched around his torso…. they matter. And he can’t shake them aside, no matter how hard he tries.

Perhaps, he thinks, perhaps this is part of the experience that’s changing him, causing him to sink, inch by inch, further into the human existence. The doubt is a symptom, too. He’s terrified by it. He doesn’t want to become what Anna has become, he doesn’t want to be fallen and cast out and hunted by his family.

But he does want to feel that warmth again, despite himself.

And it occurs to him, maybe she wanted to feel it, too. Maybe it’s why she fell.

 

_**II. Sam** _

_**  
**_There’s a reason that Sam knows, post-the return of his soul, that it would be awkward if he hugged Castiel. It’s because they’ve tried it once before, and it didn’t work out entirely the way they thought it would.

It was before Cas got in the car and fell asleep on the ride out to Detroit to say yes to the devil. Dean had put an arm around his brother, said, “We’re gonna do this, aren’t we?” And Sam had nodded. A moment later, they were in each other’s arms, clinging hard. Sam’s eyes were squeezed shut. And Dean’s emotions were transparent, even if Castiel couldn’t see his face. There was so much they were both holding onto in that embrace. And Castiel found himself clenching his fists, feeling stupidly and irrevocably human, wanting to hold on, too.

So when Dean let go and rounded the car’s hood to open the driver’s side door, Castiel took a chance. “Good luck, Sam,” he said, and launched himself full-tilt at Sam.

He hit like a thousand tons of bricks. Sam stumbled backward, gave an “oof” noise, and steadied himself against the car, blinking at Castiel in shock. Apparently Castiel’s angelic strength had not entirely abandoned him, even if it was running low.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel said.

“No, it’s okay,” Sam said, straightening up.

“I just thought…”

“Sure you did.”

“I was mistaken.”

“No, no.” Sam shook his head and attempted to smile. “It’s okay, Cas. You want a hug, too?”

“No.” Castiel looked down at his still-clenched fists, forced them to relax. “Yes.”

So Sam came at him, and Castiel wasn’t ready, and suddenly he was all wrapped up in giant arms, his own arms pinned by his side, unable to move or to embrace in return, until he finally recognized the strange tightness in his chest and managed, “Sam. Can’t. Breathe.”

Sam stepped back. “Whoa. Sorry. I didn’t mean…”

Now Castiel was the one finding himself saying, “It’s okay.”

“I thought you were stronger, I mean, you almost knocked me over.”

“Forget it.” Castiel looked away, and in looking away he caught the eye of Dean.

Who was grinning like he’d just been watching one of those screwball comedies Castiel had heard so much about. The kind when you laugh at the characters for their stupidity.

Castiel wanted to sink into the earth and never return.

And still, even with all that, Sam’s arms _had_ been warm.

_**III. Bobby** _

It probably doesn’t count as a hug, and Castiel isn’t thinking of it as such… he’s just stumbles into Bobby’s kitchen, injured, his grace bleeding where Rachel stabbed him, and staggers forward toward the stunned man in front of him, landing heavily on him out of lack of any other thing to do.

“Balls,” he hears Bobby say just before he topples backward, Castiel falling on top of him, unable to keep himself up.

And it’s a funny kind of warmth he feels now, with the cold floor pressed against his skin,with Bobby’s grumblings beneath him and attempts to roll him off. But Castiel’s arms had reached forward as he fell, and they’re around Bobby’s torso, so, he realizes numbly in the midst of all the discomfort, this kind of counts as a hug. Even though he’s the one doing the hugging.

Bobby manages with a burst of strength to roll Castiel off him. And now Castiel’s hugging nothing but the floor, until meaty hands come to his side and shoulder. Bobby’s kneeling beside him, using his own body as a lever to help him up. and Castiel leans on it. “C’mon there,” Bobby says, “move your feathery ass,” and even through the pain and the cold and confusion Castiel does his best to comply. And the thing that gives him the strength to do it?

That warmth again. The warmth of Bobby’s hands, sliding under his ribcage, holding him steady. Castiel remembers seeing the Winchester boys hold on to each other, as though they would both fall if they let go. He knows how that feels now, so literally. And he lifts his own hands to steady himself against Bobby’s arms. His head lolls, and he feels himself slipping, until his cheek lands against Bobby’s shoulder.

Yes. This is what it is to be human and to have another human hold you. Hold you up, hold you together. All of those things. And Castiel needs it very much, so much it scares him. He’s got to get stronger, got to get the souls, so he won’t need this anymore.

But for the moment that he’s holding onto Bobby, and Bobby’s holding on to him, he’s got enough strength to move worlds. Or at least move his own “feathery ass” into the other room, which is good enough for now.

_**IV. Garth** _

Garth has never seen an angel before. He swears up and down there was one girl in Tennessee that might have been one, but Castiel shakes his head and says the description doesn’t match any of his siblings, which makes Garth eye him and say “Well, maybe, you’re the one who’s no angel, you ever think of that?”

Castiel is not sure how to respond. Then again, he doesn’t know much about how to respond to anyone lately. That’s why he’s generally been avoiding people, because every time he is around them they seem to get all… all fight-y, and he doesn’t like it. He doesn’t understand why people can’t just play games and get along instead of doing all this fighting.

It’s not like the universe means much, anyway. Taking on Sam’s psychosis opened a door for him to realize that. His whole life, he’s been struggling, lost between angel and man, when the fact is, it doesn’t matter. The universe has no internal structure that needs to be followed. There’s no reason, no place on the continuum of life and death, good and evil, that’s preferable to the other. It all just _is,_ and the rest is details.

So Castiel has found some things he thinks are nice. Like animals. And games. And peace. And he will stay with them, damn the consequences.

That being said, there’s still Dean and Sam, and he still owes them. And so he is here, getting sized up by a skinny hunter who thinks he’s not an angel. Castiel wants to point out that Garth is very much living proof of the silliness of the universe. There’s no reason, for example, that he should be alive and other hunters are dead. There’s just dumb luck and happenstance. And Garth is the dumbest luck he’s ever seen.

“I promise you,” Castiel says, “I’m an angel. For whatever that’s worth nowadays.”

“Aw,” Garth says, cocking his head to the side, “someone’s feeling a little pouty. Don’t worry, big guy, it’s worth a lot.”

“I used to think so,” It strikes Castiel funny, and he laughs, but the laugh feels sad. He hates being sad in moments like these, because he doesn’t know exactly why, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

“Somebody needs a hug,” Garth says, and Castiel immediately freezes up and stares at him.

Because nobody’s offered him a hug. Ever. Except for that one time with Sam. (There _was_ also Cupid, but that doesn’t count.) Castiel took a hug, when he saw Dean and Sam again in the mental institution, just after he’d woken up, and they both stiffened like cats who didn’t want to be petted. Cats Castiel understands — they never know whether an approaching hand is an act of peace or war — but Winchesters ought to know better. This is probably one reason he’s spent more time around cats than Winchesters lately. He doesn’t want to start another war.

But Garth is already approaching him, arms widespread and grin huge, saying, “C’mon, angel buddy, I’ll give you a hug.” And behind him Dean is looking at them _both_ funny,  and Sam is just shaking his head, but when Garth gets close enough, Castiel opens his arms and clasps him tight.

Garth is warm against him, and Castiel remembers that warmth, that unadulteratedly _good_ feeling that struck him the first time, that hit him every time since. He likes the warmth. He likes the feeling of Garth’s skinny little chin poking into his shoulder. He likes the feeling of being all wrapped up in another person, of being accepted and safe. Finally, he’s found something that’s preferable. Between life and death, good and evil, along all the spectra and planes of existence, Castiel would like very much to choose an existence that includes lots of hugs.

He wishes he knew how to get more of them.

In the meantime, he adds hugs, along with animals and board games and peace, to the list of things he thinks are nice.

_**V. Charlie** _

It’s no use, Metatron says. We’ve got to face them sooner or later. So Castiel goes to face them.

They’re not alone.

So while Metatron has a long, protracted discussion with Sam and Dean about the ins and outs of the demon tablet and the missing prophet and the final trial, Castiel finds himself standing around in a huge hall full of antiquated equipment and ironwork railings, staring not at the vintage phonograph or the library just beyond the central table but at a red-haired girl who’s staring, very pointedly, back at him.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she says.

Castiel blinks at her. “I don’t know. Is it?”

“I think it must be you,” she says, and unfolds her (heretofore folded-over-her-chest) arms to stick one hand out in greeting. “I’m Charlie. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Castiel,” he says, and shakes her hand. Her grip is firm, but her hand is small. He’s reminded a bit of Meg. If only because she’s a woman, and because she seems to know more about him already than he knows about himself.

“Castiel… that’s Cas, right? The Cas Dean mentions sometimes. Boy, he is all weirded up about you. Can’t decide what to make of you, whether you’re up or down.”

This would have confused him a year ago. Not anymore. “I know,” he says. “And I wish it didn’t have to be that way.”

“But it does, huh?” Charlie leans against the railing at the foot of the stairs. “Never anything simple about it, that’s for sure.”

“No,” he muses, “there never is.”

She regards him for a few seconds, brushes her hair away from her face and kicks at the tiled floor a bit. Her sneakers are green, and he likes their color. He smiles down at them.

“Vintage ’80s high-tops,” she says. “Pretty rad, huh?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Trust me, then. And they’re cool.”

He tries to remember the 1980s, but he spent most of it shuffling souls. There were a lot of disasters, and a lot of new heavens to create. Most of the music was bad, as he recalls. “If you say so.”

“No, I mean them.” She nods her head at Sam and Dean. “They’re cool. With whatever it is you’ve got to keep from them, why-ever it is you did the things you did. They don’t like it, but they get it. And they miss you.”

Castiel’s face must betray his complete confusion, because Charlie laughs. “Look, I may just be getting to know these guys, but I think I’ve pegged them pretty well. Once you get into their family, you might fight, you might scream at each other, but you’re in. And you’re in. Mind if I call you Cas?”

“No.” It sounds pretty natural in her voice, even though he’s always thought it sounded strange coming from anyone but Sam or Dean.

“Cas,” she says, “you keep looking at them like you want to say sorry for something and you can’t find the words. I’m telling you, you don’t have to. They love you.”

“They—” His face is hot.

She shuffles up to him, nudges his arm with her elbow. “They do,” she says. “And Dean, well… you guys will have to figure it out, but at the very least, know that you’re family to them.”

“And are you?” he says, looking down at her upturned face, lit with a smirk. “Are you family to them?”

She shrugs. “I’m getting there.”

Castiel finds he’s smiling. “Does that make us family?”

Charlie laughs. “Maybe it does. The new and improved Winchesters, with room for all.”

“There was a time,” Castiel says, “when there was no room for anybody but them.”

“And then they grew up,” she rejoins.

Castiel decides he likes her. A lot.

“So I guess you’re kind of… my brother in law?” she muses, tipping her head to the side. “Something like that.”

But Castiel’s mind has gone elsewhere. “I hope you’re right,” he says. “About them being cool.”

“Aw.” She reaches out. “Of course I’m right. You’ll see.” And she folds him into a hug.

He answers, fully, wrapping his arms around her and whispering “Thank you,” in his ear. She smiles — he can feel her cheek push upward against his — and squeezes tighter. And with this hug, Castiel feels like this girl he’s just met really is part of his family.

Maybe that’s why he likes hugs so much. Maybe they mean family. His first hug was from a member of his family, too. And every time he gets hugged, he’s certain he belongs, right at this place, because someone’s holding him there, someone wants him to be there and nowhere else. That’s the satisfaction of a hug. To know you’re wanted right at that spot, in that moment, close enough to touch.

He wants Sam and Dean to hug him, for real. To let him know that he really is part of their family. And he wants to hug them back, particularly Dean. To let him know that even though he didn’t hug back in purgatory, he wanted to. He still wants to. He wants to be right there, next to Dean, and nowhere else.

“Thank you,” he says again, and the warmth flowing through his body keeps growing even after he lets go. _  
_

**and**

**_I. Dean_   
**

**_  
_**They’re breathless and dirty and fatigued. Blood drips from their wounds unstanched and they’re fighting to stay upright. But they’ve done it. The gates to hell are closed. And somehow, they’re all still alive.

“It’s over,” Sam says, and his voice is heavy with weariness.

“Huh.” Dean shrugs, ever full of bravado. “That wasn’t so bad.”

“You have three broken ribs and a concussion,” Castiel points out.

“Like I said.” Dean grins at him. “Not bad.”

And Castiel’s overcome with warmth, the kind of warmth he’s only ever felt when he’s been in someone’s arms. And as he gazes at Dean, the realization washes over him. It’s not the hugs that bring the warmth; it’s the other way around. Right now, he feels so much warmth that he wants to share it, wants to open his arms and take Dean into it and share all the warmth and love and gratitude he feels for him in the only way he knows how.

It’s overwhelming. He holds his hands stiffly at his sides.

“Dean,” he says, “can I ask you a question?”

Dean blinks. “Sure, I guess.” He glances as Sam, doubtless puzzled at what question Cas could possibly as now, of all times.

Castiel coughs, raising one clenched fist to his mouth to muffle the sound, and clears his throat. “It’s a strange question.”

“It’s OK, Cas.” Dean winces as he moves forward a step. “Ask away.”

Castiel meets his gaze. “Are we family?”

Dean pauses, looks at him, and then looks back at Sam. Castiel thinks Sam nods, but he’s not concentrating on anything but Dean’s face right now. Dean’s face, and his body, and the overwhelming urge to wrap around it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Of course we are. We’re family.”

“Despite everything?” Castiel says. “Even though I’ve done—”

Dean interrupts him. “You did what you had to do, Cas. We know that. We are all just doing what we’ve gotta do to survive. It’s a messed-up world, and sometimes we do messed-up things. But yeah.” He nods. “Even with all that, you’re family.”

Castiel takes in a short breath. “Then I’d like to ask a favor. As family.”

“Shoot.” Dean’s still looking back at Sam, who’s backed off a few paces, every few seconds, as though he can’t quite handle this alone. This time, Castiel thinks he sees Sam wave Dean away — _your problem, dude_ — but there’s still a smile on his face.

“I’d like.” Castiel loses his voice a moment, and he clears his throat again. “I’d like to hug you.”

Dean blinks, then laughs. “You’d like to _hug_ me.”

“Yes.” Panic rises in Castiel. Has he said something so laughable?

“Sorry, dude. I don’t do hugs.”

“Liar.” That comes from Sam, who’s out-and-out grinning watching this exchange from a distance.

Castiel looks over at him. “I want to hug you as well, Sam,” he says.

“I’m good with that,” Sam says, suppressing a laugh, but he doesn’t move forward to collect.

“Fine,” Dean grumbles, “you can hug me, but only if _you_ —” and he turns to Sam— “don’t stand there watching.”

Sam raises his hands in surrender and turns away.  “Take your time,” he says, and leans against the wall for a momentary rest.

“OK.” Dean says with an air of resignation. “Come at me, bro.”

Castiel approaches. His arms go out, clumsily, and he forces his fists to open into palms. This is something he wants so much, and has for so long, that he barely knows how to make it happen now that he has the chance. Gazing at Dean steadies him, and it also roils the warmth inside him, makes it unbearable to hold within himself another minute.

This, maybe, is what Charlie had said he and Dean needed to figure out. The warmth that’s overflowing as his arms touch Dean’s arms, circle around his back.

Dean doesn’t lift his hands. For a moment it’s an embrace like the one in Purgatory, one-sided, and Castiel’s heart sinks into his stomach.

But Dean’s still holding his gaze, and as Castiel comes closer, prepares to press his cheek against Dean’s and share all that overwhelming warmth, Dean makes a move with his head that Castiel doesn’t expect and now they’re on a collision course and Dean’s eyes are closing and—

— and _oh._

Oh, this is a different kind of warmth altogether.

Dean’s lips are soft, chapped but wet, and they linger, gently pressing. against Castiel’s own And there’s not warmth here but heat, bright and clear as the call of a trumpet, blazing through him and making him feel as though he’s staring into a sunrise. This, this is new, and it’s amazing, and he wants to do it forever, over and over, just with Dean.

The kiss ends, they pull away. Dean coughs. His cheeks are red.

“You didn’t hug back,” Castiel says reproachfully.

“I told you,” Dean says. “I don’t hug.”

But they’re both grinning, and there’s color in Dean’s cheeks, a red glow the color of that same blossoming sunrise. And the warmth that Castiel had hoped to share is now flowing between the two of them, electric and real and totally new.

This might be even better than hugs. Maybe. Castiel’s not sure.

But he looks forward to finding out.


End file.
